elizabethkirby's Open Salon Blog

Frat House Chili

Thu, 26 Jan 2012 18:01:14 -0500

When Dad gimped out of Walter Reed Hospital in 1945, he knew he’d rather make a living playing stride piano than return to engineering school in the tundra. He also knew that his stern Swedish mother didn’t raise her son to hang out in jazz bars with guys who don’t have teeth and smell like spittoons. What he didn’t know was that a bombshell from Duluth would make life worth living at Michigan Tech and rock his frat house chili recipe into the 21^st century.

On the train ride home to Duluth, his mind was elsewhere. He kept replaying a moment at the hospital. No, not war stories because he had none. In a football game at Officer Candidate School in Grinnell, Iowa, he shattered his leg, putting him on the permanently disabled list for a year and sending him to Walter Reed for multiple surgeries.

No, the story that consumed him concerned Art Tatum, accomplished stride piano player who visited the hospital to cheer up the soldiers. They shouted, “Ya gotta hear Neil. He ain’t good for much but man, can he play the piano!”

Graciously, Mr. Tatum invited Neil to crank out a few standards on the old upright in the cafeteria that hadn’t been tuned since 1928. Making the most of this moment, Dad avoided screwing up the bridge in “Sweet Lorraine” like he usually did. Mr. Tatum told him he really had talent. Talent. “Me…a big dumb Swede.”

When the big dumb Swede was settled at home, he let mom know about the blessings of the GI bill for college tuition, and then, gently dropped the bomb about his forthcoming jazz gig.

At “The Flame,” Neil could play anything he wanted. On a Bosendorfer overlooking Lake Superior, the keyboard became his oyster. A Lucky Strike with an ash about 2 inches long burned deliberately while ice cubes diluted a short, stiff Manhattan. Dad always said a cigarette plus a good belt equals critical foreplay required by a jazz piano player.

Because he never screwed it up, “You Took Advantage of Me” was the first out of the block.

I'm a sentimental sap, that's all

What's the use of trying not to fall?

I have no will, you've made your kill

'Cause you took advantage of me

Gershwin, you’re up next. “Someone to Watch Over Me” followed but Neil always got stuck on the bridge. Damn. No one in the bar could tell the difference, though. He loved to play Gershwin, he figured, you can’t go wrong with George. But the tune’s little melancholy since the war just ended and everyone’s trying to pull their lives together. Including him.

“Limehouse Blues” next. Crank up the joint.

Oh, Limehouse blues, I've the real Limehouse blues
Can't seem to shake off, those real China blues
Rings on your fingers and tears for your crown
That is the story of old Chinatown…

This was his dream, playing until the chairs turned upside down, until the cigarette butts were swept out the door along with a few lushes, all the while keeping time with his left foot. He approached the keys the way his father caressed a pipe organ at Gloria Dei Lutheran Church. But his father was bolstered by lilies, incense, Bach, and the Good Book. Not martinis, beer steins and Cole Porter.

Over the summer, he met someone “nice and fine” and he managed to improvise Sweet Lorraine to her Chopin. You see, their eyes met over a couple of Steinway Concert “B’s” in her living room and..wow.

Just found joy
I'm as happy as a baby boy
When he's playing with his choo-choo toy
When I'm with my sweet Lorraine
She's got a pair of eyes
That are bluer than the summer sky
When you see her you're gonna realize
Why I love my sweet Lorraine
When it's raining I don't miss the sun
'Cause it's in my sweetie's smile
Just think that I'm the lucky one
Who will lead her down the aisle
Each night how I pray
That nobody steals her heart away
I can't wait until that lucky day
When I marry my Lorraine

Debussy met Duke Ellington. And the two, yes, actually made music. . . Once September rolled around, Dad hated going back to school without her. He despised the bitterly cold, grungy air at Michigan Tech and joked that when the world got an enema, they’d put the nozzle in Houghton.

But he returned to engineering school, began putting the pieces of his professional life together, living in a frat house where one of his buddies cooked up a great pot of chili every weekend when the cook was off. He loved it, lived on it, named it “chili gop” and wrote down the recipe for Jean to learn.

Which she did until she died in 1985, cranking out frat house chili on call. It’s pretty basic, highly primitive and what you’d expect from a fraternity house circa 1945. Carrying on the tradition, my sister and I have renamed it “Fart House Chili” and think of the “big dumb Swede” with every pot.

While it’s simmering, I find it always tastes better if I listen to Sweet Lorraine, keep time with my left foot, sip a short, stiff margarita, and gimp around the kitchen.

Here it is…the basic, one and only, Chili Gop, Fart House Chili or….

Frat House Chili

1 ¼ lb. ground turkey (or beef – which was the original ingredient)

1 diced onion

1 diced green pepper

3 stalks celery, diced

1 teaspoon dried oregano

1 tsp ground cumin

3 Tb or so, Gebhardt’s chili powder

2 cans, 14.5 oz each, classic stewed tomatoes, undrained

1 can red kidney beans, DO NOT DRAIN…the juice is important.

Spaghetti – about a quarter in diameter

Salt (very little required because the juice in the beans has quite a bit of salt) and pepper

Serve with:

Crushed Frito Corn chips (I told you this was basic)

Grated cheddar cheese

Shredded iceberg lettuce

Diced red onion

Diced avocado

Sour cream - optional

Diced cilantro - optional

In a good, heavy pot, brown the ground turkey. Add the onion, celery, and green pepper – continue sautéing until transparent.

Add the spices at this point – chili powder, oregano, and cumin. Sauté for a few minutes to bring out the flavor of the spices. Chili powders vary tremendously in “heat” and taste – for this recipe, I always use the Gebhardt brand to get the same taste. It’s up to you. My family gets upset if it’s too spicy so I keep it calm.

After the flavors have developed, add the cans of tomatoes and UNDRAINED kidney beans. Yup…just dump those suckers in there in its entirety. Remember, they made this in the fraternity house. If you feel you need more liquid, you can add a bit of water if necessary. Bring to a boil, cover, and simmer for 30 minutes.

Grab a handful of spaghetti out of the packet, about the diameter of a quarter. Does that make sense? Break it in half, yes, break it in half and DUMP it in the pot. I told you this was basic.

Bring to boil, stir occasionally and cover for about 20 minutes more.

And here's what my kitchen looks like when the kids find out I'm cooking Chili Gop...

Serve with toppings, cheese first to melt. And Sweet Lorraine. Don’t forget her.

When I Die: Two Things My Kids Want to Know

Tue, 17 Jan 2012 19:01:07 -0500

When I kick the bucket, my kids will ask two questions: 1) how much cash is left in the mattress for them and 2) who’s going to make artichoke soup when the old broad is pushing up geraniums?

Oh, might be ugly but it’s true. Once the moolah is in their mitts, assuming I haven’t managed to bounce my last check, they’ll move on to number two. And when my babes realize their soup slave has relocated to that great bouillabaisse in the sky, their agitated faces will make Munch’s Mr. Scream look like he’s just returned from a week at the Golden Door.

How did I create such a jambalaya? About 33 years ago, I enrolled in a cooking class with Chef James Sly of L’Orangerie, a swankily stupendous Los Angeles restaurant sporting cuisine à la française, eclipsing my tacos à la crapola. Neither a swanky nor a stupendous cook, I figured it was time to amp up my game from bean dip to something with more syllables.

Entrée Crème Purée D’Artichaut aka Artichoke Soup......

This was the first course on the recipe manifesto. And after Annihilating the Fine Art of French Cooking, I was an eager student. Oh yeh, I had Julia’s book and worked over a few of her numbers. Worked ‘em good. Fried my eyebrows as well as the chicken when I flambéed the Coq au Vin. And by the time I got the Ratatouille on the table, I was underneath it, lying prone in the dead bug position after swirling those veggies like a tarantella. To say nothing of the sponge cake which was as light and frothy as the village smithy’s anvil.

Back to class. At age 26, with my hair in a “Farrah” and the rest of me poured into something impractical, I had Chef Sly’s attention. Bonjour, Monsieur.

Noting that I needed specific direction, zee Chef tossed an artichoke to me along with a knife that would make Jack the Ripper drool. He (not Jack – he wasn’t in the class) told me I was only as good as my utensils. Now that’s a line for the ages. At which point I recalled Mom rolling out that pie crust with a vodka bottle just minutes before she flung it (the dough, not the vodka of course) across the room. I refrained from sharing how a Smirnoff bottle was considered a useful tool in my house and decided I’d let my tight sweater do all the talking.

Mano a mano with a mean looking artichoke, I began to work. I couldn’t pare a banana, let alone something green, coarse and prickly, with fifty leaves and a bad attitude. Reminded me of an old boyfriend.

Vigorously, with coaching from the big Kahuna in the tall white hat, I trimmed that puppy down to the heart, then using a melon baller (how do they say that in French?), I scooped out the choke. Voilà. I was au courant. Au proficient. Au boobalicious. Julia, you might be a master but I look better in a tight sweater and I can tap dance, too. Neener neener neener.

I tossed that artichoke heart into a pot of simmering chicken stock with a few other goodies à la française, then pureed, while whisking a little of this and a little of that. Un peu et un peu. Edible music appeared. The Rach 3 was translated into the first course.

And the taste …oh the taste….was something way beyond Campbell’s vocabulary. Or mine. It was as smooth and sultry and delicately sensuous as anything I had ever devoured and I couldn’t wait to make it for my family, who would be impressed that I could not only sing all the words to the UCLA Fight song but I could ALSO cook.

Thus began my soup saga which flourishes today. And when I kick the proverbial bucket, my kids who order out, order in, and fall into the “clueless cooks” category, will be soupless.

It’s not my bod they’d want to cryogenically preserve. Rather, my ravenous offspring would prefer I get to work making massive batches of the stuff, transferred into the deep freeze right next to Ted Williams and the Cherry Garcia.

So here, for the ages, is my Crème Puree D’Artichaut. Labor intensive but oh, très merveilleuse! C’est formidable! No tight sweater or vodka required. Still, an endangered species in my house. C’est la vie.

Crème Puree D’Artichaut

Per person:

1 large artichoke

½ cup of chicken stock

½ cup of crème fraîche

1 oz. sweet butter

½ egg yolk

2 T. dry sherry

1/4 tsp thyme

1/2 bay leaf,

salt, pepper, cayenne to taste

Crème fraiche

It’s easy to find crème fraîche in grocery stores today, but Chef Sly taught us to make it ourselves. So I do. I whisk several tablespoons of plain yogurt with a quart of cream, let sit at room temp (a day or two depending on how hot your kitchen is, baby) and suddenly, you’ll find that it thickens, considerably, like sour cream. Crème fraîche doesn’t “break” as easily as sour cream, that’s why it is used. Up to you…or ….buy it.

Artichokes

The time “intensive” part is prepping the chokes. Find the fattest, freshest, nicest artichokes available.

Wash the chokes well. Prepare a bowl of acidulated water – that’s water with a bunch of lemons to toss the prepared “hearts” in while you are cleaning the other artichokes. Don’t be alarmed as the trimmed raw chokes turn “brown.” They taste the same and for the most part, the color of the soup won’t be too terribly affected.

With a sharp knife, begin trimming the choke down, carefully, until you get to the center. The heart. The good stuff.

One you have a clean heart, remove the choke with a spoon or melon baller.

Drop into the acidulated lemon water to prevent discoloration.

Once all the chokes are cleaned, drain from the lemon water and drop into chicken stock with bay leaf, and thyme.

Simmer until very tender - about 20-30 minutes.

Let cool slightly, then puree in batches.

At this point, you've made "the base" which freezes perfectly. So that means when artichokes are in season, cheaper and more plentiful, you can make the base to be used at a later date.

On the day I plan to serve the soup, a few hours before, I will whisk the egg yolks with half the crème fraîche and set aside. Then in a large pot, I'll drop in the soup "base" to begin heating, along with the remaining crème fraîche and the sherry, while whisking and warming. Once the soup base is warm, I'll add a bit of the warm soup base/creme fraiche mixture to the egg yolk/creme fraiche mixture, tempering the eggs. Then return the entire egg mixture into the pot and warm gently. Do not boil. Bring to a barely simmering point, cooking the egg mixture for about 7 minutes, and now...time to taste. Add a knifepoint of cayenne or just enough to give it a slight kick. Add butter to taste. (I actually add very little butter - I don't think you need too much.) Taste for salt and pepper. And I always add a bit more sherry. And a swirl of paprika. Bon appetit!

Sans Office

Tue, 10 Jan 2012 16:01:36 -0500

My feet are firmly planted in midair. Unresponsive to a desk, my continuous flight of fancy is fueled by Ravel waltzes and chocolate. When inspiration drags me from ennui to the easel, this is the view from my corner of the world.

When I need a new visual fix, I throw a few things together in the light of my downstairs studio...

Or try a new perspective from a child's eyes:

Or continue annihilating that Debussy Arabesque I've been thrashing around for about 20 years...

Or trim those wiley hydrangeas for a beauty shot...

Or head for the kitchen to heat up the joint in the evocative light of dusk...

Or strut upstairs to file that post for Salon. It's winter in California.

Perhaps take one more shot at that Arabesque:

Sans office, life is much sexier.

Making Pasta, Corzetti and Joy: "The Chew" Review

Mon, 2 Jan 2012 18:01:54 -0500

“The melody’s in the right hand, not the left!”

I was practicing, or as my mother would say, “annihilating,” a Mozart sonata before school, before breakfast, and before I was capable of anything other than brushing my teeth. With the tenderness of Attila the Hun, Mom was clarifying how I should be playing just in case I was unclear.

OK, Attila, I’ll find that melody. I got your back. It's around here somewhere.

“You play like you’re going to a fire! SLOW DOWN!”

Frying the bacon and flopping around the kitchen floor in her signature scuffs, Mom listened carefully to every note, equipped with radar circa Soviet Union 1960, the spy who came in from the cold in suburbia. The original multi-tasker, she fried, she flopped, and she critiqued with great finesse. And frequency.

It seemed I heard more about the clunkers than the beauties, but whatever the performance, Mother made it absolutely clear how it was supposed to be done. Even if I didn’t. Play slowly. Melody in the right hand. Or left. Head, shoulders, knees, and toes. This was confusing.

“Don’t just play the notes. Make ‘em SING!”

Oh yes, and don’t forget to make the notes sing.

Really. I’m eight years old and in my world of Barbies and buck teeth, the only thing that sings is Mrs. Poggenpohl’s Glee Club and Bobby Darin. Last time I looked, my fingers didn’t sing worth squat.

“Make it sing!”

Only years later did I truly understand what those words meant. And what a metaphor for life they have become. It’s the difference between “ordinary” and “spectacular.” It’s the difference between jello and gelato. Put the apple in a pie and you get my drift.

And for ABC’s new program, “The Chew,” it’s the difference between a cooking demonstration and a fiesta of culinary jubilation. Oh that does sound a bit wild, but let me tell you, when you have colorful, talented chefs, cooks and characters tossing ideas, “chewing,” chatting, chopping and bantering, the most muy fabuloso and joyous cooking party comes to life. Led by Clinton Kelly, the one guest you’d never want to leave off your list, who could make conversation with a light post if necessary, “The Chew” ignites cooking hoopla into something that comes closer to what it truly can be. Bourguignon beyond Julia.

Ahhh, I get it. They make it sing. Yes, Mom, I now smell what you’re cooking. “The Chew” makes it sing.

Once the Food Network production team lifted the “sexy” out of cooking with clever camera work, music and nimble editing, they got closer to Irma Rombauer’s tag, “the joy of cooking.” But not quite.

Honestly, if you love to cook and entertain, you understand what I mean. The minute the onions hit the olive oil, they’re not the only things sizzling in my kitchen. Aretha’s singing, Herbie Hancock’s playing, and dinner will be on the table in a few hours to make everyone smile. Brace yourself, Maria. It doesn’t get better than this.

One of the recipes recently shared by Mario Batali was “Corzetti with Green Ricotta” and it found its way into my kitchen on a cold December night. My husband is still mumbling and musing about its wonderfulness,

So here's my take on Master Batali’s creation.

Check out “The Chew.” And make the Corzetti. By the way, the Ricotta really isn’t green. But it sings, baby, it sings.

Mario Batali’s Corzetti with Green Ricotta

Pasta:

3 cups unbleached flour

4 large eggs

1 tablespoon milk

Flour for rolling

This recipe calls for “Corzetti” which look like little coins or medallions. I do not own a stamp for this process, so my Corzetti are naked. Just your basic little coins, rather symbolic of the basic way I cook.

As for making pasta, it is easier than you think and utterly delicious. Try it.

Or buy it. Either way, this is delicious.

If you’re making the pasta, here’s how I do it. I place the flour in my food processor, make a little well in the middle and add the eggs and milk.

I process, pulsing, just a few times, until the mixture is granular, like coarse cornmeal.

I dump the dough out on my countertop and with my hands, push the dough together into a ball.

At this point, I cover it with a damp towel and let it rest for about 20 minutes. This is a good time to make the Ricotta mixture which will coat the little Corzettis and make them utterly divine.

Green Ricotta

½ cup soft goat cheese

1 cup fresh ricotta, drained

¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

½ cup freshly grated pecorino romano

3 tablespoons marjoram (we’re not fans of this herb, so I used fresh Italian parsley) (diced – and I actually used about 4-5 T of the parsley)

3 tablespoons oregano, straight from the garden (diced)

3 tablespoons basil, straight from Trader Joe’s (shirred)

Salt and black pepper to taste

Drizzle of olive oil

In a large bowl, soften the goat cheese and mix with the ricotta, nutmeg, the pecorino romano, the herbs and the salt and pepper. To thin this mixture, you’re going to add some of the pasta water just before draining the…corzetti.

After the pasta has been resting, knead a few times and get ready to roll. Working with a piece of dough about the size of a lemon, begin to work the dough through your pasta machine. I use a Bialetti which I believe are not longer made. It’s like a traditional Atlas pasta machine but it has a motor, so your hands are free as you are rolling the dough.

You work the dough through the widest part of the roller, folding and reworking through the roller, until the dough becomes elastic as the gluten develops. You’ll probably want to rub the dough with flour on both sides, depending on the humidity in your kitchen. It takes at least 6 runs to get it ready to roll out to a thinner consistency.

Once the dough is smooth and elastic, tighten the roller one or two notches (on my Bialetti I go from 6 to 4) and roll the dough through, catching it on the other side.

Then crank it down again, to 2 for Corzetti. Then, I take the pieces of pasta and lay then down on cookie sheets or your counter, and dust them with Wondra flour (which is granular and sinks to the bottom of the pot when cooking.)

After the pasta has been rolled into sheets, I used a cookie cutter and punched out the little “corzetti” coins. Continuously, I dust with Wondra to keep the dough from sticking.

You are ready to rock and roll.

Get that water boiling. 8 quarts with 2 tablespoons salt.

Once the water is at a rollicking full boil, add the pasta and cook until al dente. About 4-5 minutes in my corner of the world.

While the pasta is cooking, ladle out some of the pasta water and thin your cheese/herb mixture until a nice consistency to coat the pasta.

Drain the pasta….toss into the bowl with the cheese mixture.

Dust with extra pecorino romano and…celebrate! You will not believe how delicious this is.

And thank you for singing, the crew of “The Chew.”

Creme Brulee French Toast: A Kiss from My Kitchen

Mon, 26 Dec 2011 20:12:37 -0500

My mother was kicked out of college after having an affair with a married professor and sent to the Stodgy U of higher learning for women only. Where she studied creative writing with William Inge who taught her to make French 75’s and Arroz con Pollo. In turn, she entertained him with Rachmaninoff preludes and strip poker. Of course.

Mom was so easy. Fun, I mean. Once she became a mother, she wore matching skirts and sweaters, poached eggs for breakfast, starched my father’s handkerchiefs, and practiced the “times step” on our linoleum floor. You really didn’t think she did everything normally, did you?

Flirting with her racy past, she proudly displayed the chastity belt she received for 40^th birthday gift. Every man at the party had a key.

When my daughter reached age 16 and her hormones were raging like the Mississippi after a spring thaw, I saw my mother’s rowdy spirit emerging. Only this time, the joke was on me. Like my wild and crazy mammacita, Brooke (my daughter) was the antithesis of ordinary. A stunning creature, she was full of hell with a coterie of male creatures eager to make her acquaintance. I felt like the proprietor at the Korean DMZ, surrounded by heat seeking missiles with bad attitudes and no sense of direction.

My only weapon was the whisk and the oven. Brownies, pizza, lasagna, chili gop, frittatas, quesadillas...I made everything that made their heads turn as long as they kept their eyes off my daughter and on the mozzarella. Extra saltpeter, anyone? I figured if the kids were eating in the kitchen, they weren’t doing other things that I really didn’t want them…doing. Oh sure, it sounds funny now. At the time it wasn’t. It was terrifying.

Because I couldn’t reach my daughter. No logic, no discipline, no common sense could penetrate her petticoat. All my efforts seemed to land outside her bubble. Still, I kept throwing but no one was catching - I guess I needed a better arm or she needed a bigger mitt. She was catching, alright, and his name was Joe.

But I could cook for her. And I did, baby, I served it up big time. It was the only way I could tell her I loved her. I’d be stirring the sauce and she’d be climbing out the front window. Soon, she’d return.

“Are you hungry, honey?” I’d ask. “Sure!” she’d answer, followed by, “Can my friends come?” Oh yeh. Sure, bring the gnomes, misanthropes, and trolls. Bring all the artillery including the missiles. Dinner’s on the table, sportsfans. Batter up. Who’s on first?

18 years later, some things have changed and others…remain the same. Becoming a mother and wife brought the girl down to earth who thankfully, lived to see the day. And so did I without imprisonment or deportation.

Today, she’s no longer sneaking out the window unless she needs to hang her Christmas lights. She’s still being chased by boys, but they are all under age 7 and call her “mom.” She goes to parties but the only commodity she promotes is her flourishing business.

And what hasn’t changed? I’m still cooking for her. Yup. You see, her chef is named Trader Joe. Not that I haven’t purchased a few pre-prepared things in my time, but I still prefer the way food appears from the toil of my own hands. Seems she didn’t get the “cooking gene.”

For holidays and family celebrations, it all still happens at my house, “suckers” in red lights should be hanging on our Christmas tree as the big Christmas Eve fête erupts at Camino de Chaos. Now that Santa delivers goods to hers on Christmas morning and because I’m in the dead bug position by midnight on Christmas Eve, I dispatch Crème Brûlée French Toast to her abode.

Hey…I can’t be there but. Here’s breakfast. Creme Brulee French Toast. And by the way….Mom learned how to make Arroz con Pollo. Get with the program.

I love you, Crazy Girl.

Crème Brulee French Toast

This recipe has been adapted from one of Paula Deen’s with a few changes which, of course, I think have improved it greatly if I do say so myself. It’s a “strata”… great for family celebrations because if you are the cheerleader for yours – like I am – you can make this in advance, even a couple of days, and just pop it in the oven. Don’t forget the Grand Marnier.

1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 cup packed brown sugar
2 tablespoons corn syrup
1 (8 to 9) inch loaf unsliced Challah bread
5 large eggs
1 1/2 cups half and half
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 tablespoons or MORE Grand Marnier
1/4 teaspoon salt

A few dashes of cinnamon and nutmeg

Powdered sugar

Maple syrup, if desire.

In a small heavy saucepan melt butter with butter with brown sugar and corn syrup over moderate heat, stirring, until smooth.

Whisk mixture until all ingredients are incorporated and pour into a 13 by 9 by 2 - inch baking dish.

Trim all crusts off Challah bread.

Cut (1-inch) thick slices from bread.

Arrange bread slices, tightly, in one layer in baking dish (right into the butter/brown sugar/corn syrup mixture), squeezing them slightly to fit.

In a bowl whisk together eggs, half and half, vanilla, Grand Marnier, salt, nutmeg and cinnamon until combined well and pour evenly over bread.

Chill bread mixture overnight.

When ready to serve, take Crème Brulee French Toast out of refrigerator and let come to room temperature for 1 hour, if possible. Preheat oven to 350 degrees and bake, uncovered, in middle of oven until puffed and edges are pale golden, 35 to 40 minutes.

Dust with powdered sugar and serve with warm maple syrup, if desired.

And....tell 'em you love 'em.